Margaret paced restlessly around her flat, unable to settle. For days now, David had been coming home late. Last night, he didn’t return until dawn. She’d scolded him—couldn’t he at least call, spare her the worry? They’d argued. And now, once again, she waited, counting steps, glancing at the clock.
“He’s in love. But he could ring. He’ll marry someday—got to get used to it. Who knows what sort of wife he‘ll end up with? More headaches. Best not dwell on it. He’s grown, but still—it aches.” Margaret couldn’t stop spiralling.
She used to laugh at mothers who smothered their grown sons, yet here she was, no better. Every girl David brought home—if he bothered at all—she’d deemed unworthy. Like any mum, she believed he should consult her on something as important as marriage. She knew best, didn’t she? Thoughts swarmed, endless. If only he’d come home already.
The lock clicked. Margaret startled, though she’d been listening. “Finally!” She rushed to the hall, then stopped midway, retreating to the kitchen, hands folded.
“Mum, why are you up?” David stood in the doorway.
“You know I worry. Could’ve called,” she said, sharp.
“I’m an adult. I don’t need to account for every move.”
“Where were you?” Her stare was a challenge.
“At Sophie’s.” His voice softened, lower now.
“Another girl—not the last, I’m sure. But you’ve only one mother.” Jealousy seeped through.
“Another? She’s the only one. Just like you.” He kissed her cheek. “Don’t speak ill of her. You’ll regret it later. How else would I find a wife if I didn’t meet anyone? You said not to marry the first lass who crossed my path. Didn’t you?”
“I did.” Margaret swallowed. “So you’ve chosen, then?”
David crouched beside her, searching her face. Her heart swelled—he looked just like his father. Same eyes, same smile.
“I have, Mum.” He buried his face in her lap.
“Then introduce us,” she said, softer now.
“I will. Only…” He lifted his head.
“What? Something wrong with her?” Was she some stray, like the kittens and pups he’d dragged home as a boy?
Compassion’s a virtue. But you can’t save them all. Back then, she’d fake allergies, sneeze. David would find the strays homes, never left them. Now? No such trick would work.
The words burned on her tongue, but his warning glance silenced her.
“She’s fine, Mum. Beautiful, cooks well. I like her. But she’s not alone.”
“A married woman?” Fear must’ve shown—David cut in fast.
“No. She’s got a son. He’s five.”
“Five?” Margaret gasped. “How old is she?”
“Mum, don’t shout. Yes, she’s older.”
“Right.” Rage choked her.
Her boy, her sunshine, the one she’d move mountains for, loved a woman older, with a child!
“Right what? I love her. People make mistakes—you’ve said so.”
“Some mistakes last forever. Free young girls not good enough now?” Bitterness spilled.
“This is why I didn’t tell you.” David stood. “Knew you wouldn’t understand. Remember that girl at your work? Left with a baby. You pitied her, said she’d find someone kind to be a dad. Why can’t that someone be me?”
“Son, love fades. I adored your father, and he left us.”
“Exactly. No guarantee a young lass would stay. I love Sophie. And her boy. He’s brilliant. Even if you object, I won’t leave her. Understood?”
“Damn it, David, I raised you to be happy—”
“Enough. It’s my life. Interfere, and I’ll go.” He turned, vanished into his room.
“Son…”
Morning came. He left without breakfast. Silence stretched. Late returns, locked doors. Margaret didn’t know how to fix it.
Yesterday, it seemed, she’d rocked him to sleep, kissed scraped knees. Now? A man’s life. Hard to accept.
“David, let’s talk,” she tried.
“When you’re ready to listen.”
“You’ll lose him if you push,” said Mrs. Wilkins, the office matriarch, as Margaret spilled her woes at lunch.
“I know I’m wrong, but I—” Her voice cracked.
“Want him glued to you forever? He needs your support, not meddling. Did your mother-in-law welcome you?”
“Not at once. But I was younger, no child.”
“And she still found faults. Mothers do. Some adjust, others wage war. Nothing good comes of it. He’s not married yet. Comes home. Hurting too. Waiting for you to bend. Meet Sophie. See this ‘rare bird’ for herself.”
Margaret steadied. Three weeks of cold shoulders. Enough. She’d visit Sophie, plead—let David go.
She marched to the address—gleaned from David’s mate—after work. Tuesdays and Thursdays, he hit the gym. An hour and a half, tops. Couldn’t arrive empty-handed. A cake? Too formal. A toy? For the boy, not her.
At the shop, she lost herself picking gifts—this lorry today, that train next time. Though would there be a next time?
The bell rang. A lovely woman answered. A boy darted out—smiling, then puzzled.
“Hello, I’m David’s mum,” she said.
“I guessed.” Sophie nudged the boy. “Oliver, go play.”
Margaret slipped off her shoes, donned David’s old slippers. The flat was cosy, clean.
“I’m Ollie! Look, my plane—it roars like a real one!” He buzzed it around.
“Brilliant. I brought you something.” She handed him a box.
His eyes lit. For fifteen minutes, they tested the lorry.
“The doors open!” Ollie sent it racing.
“Like it?”
“Loads! How’d you know I wanted this?”
“Mother’s instinct. I’ve a son, though grown now.”
She’d forgotten her mission. Sophie hovered, silent.
The crunch of keys. David. Of course he’d be here.
“I should go,” Margaret said.
“Wait for David?” Sophie leaned in the doorway.
“You’ll come back?” Ollie clung.
“Yes.” Truth, she realised.
The walk home, she replayed Ollie’s joy. His easy laugh. Sophie’s grace—no intrusion.
Inside her flat, she imagined David vanishing, leaving her alone. The ache overwhelmed her.
Next morning, she told Mrs. Wilkins of her visit. How she’d wanted to hug Ollie, breathe in that sweet child scent.
Then David called, casual. A small celebration—Sophie’s pie. Would she come? He gave the address—knew she’d been, just in case.
After work, she bought a toy train, four colourful mugs.
“Thanks, Mum.” David kissed her, helped with her coat. “Four?”
“Three for you, one for me. For when I visit.”
Sophie smiled.
“Might need a fifth soon.” David pulled a velvet box. “Sophie, marry me?”
Margaret gasped. “You—she’s expecting?”
“Not yet. But later. A girl.” He grinned. “You’ll be a gran.”
“You’re my gran?” Ollie’s face glowed.
